


The Assassins' Cabinet

by Rector



Category: Sherlock BBC
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-18
Updated: 2018-12-18
Packaged: 2019-09-22 04:09:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,778
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17052848
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rector/pseuds/Rector
Summary: This story is the result of the generous winning bid in the 2018 Mark Gatiss birthday charity auction.





	The Assassins' Cabinet

**Author's Note:**

  * For [@Phoenixrising2014](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=%40Phoenixrising2014).



 

  _'Assassin's cabinet', circa 17th century_

 

 **It** hadn't looked suspicious at first. A single fragment of an encrypted email, algorithmically harvested from millions of its kin and which would have, in most other fishing expeditions, been thrown back as banal and unworthy of interest. Except it hadn't been discarded, for the simple reason that, despite soaring improbabilities, the system found a second fragment. One of the most antiquated codes she'd seen in thirty years, Margaret Syddons, a senior analyst, brought the offending articles to his attention, apologetic for disturbing the Director of British Security with something so trivial.

"At first we thought it might be a joke or possibly an attempted hack, it seemed to be such an obvious cipher, sir," Mrs Syddons looked at the sheet of paper in her hands, troubled at being troubled by something that should have been straightforward and, in being straightforward, easy to resolve. Except it hadn't been remotely easy. "But both these fragments are clearly from a targeted message, except there's some vector shared only by the sender and the receiver which we don't have."

"It looks like a classic book code," Mycroft Holmes lifted his eyebrows, looking doubtfully at the few errant lines of data. "Except it isn't."

"Exactly. It's not. Not really, and it's definitely not a prank." Mrs Syddons frowned, her forehead a continuous wrinkle. "It should be child's play to work this through, but there's no discernible content, just parts of an encrypted frame to suggest a code is actually in play but, lacking the complete address or any content, it's impossible for our systems to break it. We can infer each message involves a book, given the two plaintext names of Dorothy Sayers and James Patterson, but there's nothing else. We don't know which book or how the content is being used because there's nothing in the message other than those names and partial routing instructions to an unknown recipient. It's like looking at an empty parking space and wondering what sort of car was last in it. Both these partials were swept in the last week and I confess, Mr Holmes, I don't much like it."

"You've checked the intercepts on either side?" he asked, piqued despite himself. He relished a good puzzle as much as his brother, but for some reason, this sense of _unknowing_ vexed him. Someone had put a great deal of effort to organise and covertly transmit a code so detectable that the Directorate's advanced anti-encryption systems had identified both segments as suspicious transmissions. And yet there was no message. Why? What was the point of such a communication? How would the intended recipient know what was required of them if there were no instructions or information, just the coded shell? Unless the shell itself was the message? A flicker of irritation eddied his thoughts.

"Given that we caught both scraps entirely by accident in the first place, I certainly have checked, on both sides, sir. For two hours on both sides of the same time on each of the preceding thirty days, as well as at the corresponding times in the evening. This is probably nothing, but I felt you ought to be told. Just in case."

 _Just in case,_ departmental code for _we don't have a clue_. All the 'just in cases' inevitably ended up on his desk. Mycroft blinked slowly. "Have you been able to triangulate the point of origin?" If they could identify the approximate source of such an anomalous message, the purpose and content, if such there were, might still be construed based on other activities currently being monitored. As there were now two intercepted fragments, by rights, they might be expected to have drawn some inferences as to the person or persons responsible.

"Not yet, Mr Holmes." Margaret Syddons bit her lip. The woman had worked for five years in the top-secret department so hush-hush it had no indicative name, referred to only as 'the Directorate'. In all that time, she'd seen nothing like this outside of a training course. People just didn't _use_ this kind of code anymore and certainly not in the way this one was being used. "We've only managed to track the partial transmissions, each of which have been sub-routed through at least a dozen or more mediating systems. We have no idea what kind of conversation is being had, nor who the participants might be, though we have confirmed both fragments were routed through Dubai and Lichtenstein and transmitted to a receiver somewhere here in London, which is why we picked them up. That's all we have. I'm sorry, Mr Holmes, but I thought you should know."

"Not to worry, Margaret," Mycroft nodded briskly, returning the paper. "Advise me when you have any additional information please."

When the analyst left, he sat back in his chair, his mouth compressed in thought. What he felt, the government felt and right now, the British Government was rather irked.

###

"What do you mean, there's been _another_ one?" Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade's Arsenal coffee mug jerked to a sloppy halt mid-way between desk and mouth. "We've barely started looking at the bloke from last night," he protested. "We don't need another bloody mystery on the books until we've got the first one sorted."

"Not my doing, Guv," Detective Sergeant Sally Donovan raised her hands and eyebrows defensively. "I'm not the one putting them out there, I just push paper around and get shouted at," she added dryly.

" _Bugger_." Heaving a frustrated sigh and ignoring the sound of sour grapes, Lestrade grudgingly abandoned the first decent coffee he'd managed to get his hands on that morning. Yanking his coat from the stand in the corner, he waved his sergeant briskly through the door. "Come on then. Let's go and see our second unexplained corpse in twelve hours. Maybe this one will be a little more forthcoming."

###

Other than the obstinate codes which continued to resist all attempts at revealing their secrets, the rest of the department appeared to have no active crises on hand, which may have had something to do with the blast of wintery weather heaving its way right across Europe. Cold comfort indeed when attempting to plot insurgency and chaos in sub-zero temperatures, however, amazingly for him, it seemed it was going to be something of a quiet afternoon. Rechecking all three of his electronic diaries in case any last-minute commitments appeared, Mycroft frowned as he glanced at the blocks of pristine white space. Opening the empty in-box on his laptop, he saw that there too, he was apparently ahead of the game. His desk phone hadn't rung since lunchtime and, flicking his mobile to life, he confirmed there were no messages awaiting his personal attention either. It was all a little too neat. He tapped the intercom button hidden beneath the lip of his desk.

"Anthea," his tone was mild. "Am I missing something?"

"You asked me to arrange time for you to do some early Christmas shopping." The velvet vowels of his assistant reminded him that, in fact, he had requested exactly such a thing, a little under twelve months prior.

"It's the middle of October."

"Correct, sir. You said shopping in December was, and I quote, 'The intellectual equivalent of sight-seeing in Dante's ninth circle of Hell', unquote. You specifically asked to be reminded to organise your shopping before December."

"As I recall, the entire month of November lies between us and December," Mycroft prized his assistant's ability to organise his time though, like now, she occasionally verged on the zealous.

"Absolutely, sir. But you also specifically asked me to remind you _before_ November after last year's little gridlock incident in Oxford Street with the fairy lights, an occasion that left you, and I quote once again, 'Too bloody aggravated to care about any sodding Christmas bonhomie'. Your mother ended up with a fine selection of Chilean tea-towels, I believe."

Inhaling briefly, Mycroft did indeed recall the event. And though his mother had expressed appropriate thanks at her new linens, her joy had tended towards the lacklustre. It would not do to offend maternal expectations a second time quite so soon.

"Then I will capitalise upon my unexpected freedom and hasten to the battlefront." Standing resolutely, he took a deep breath, mentally girding whatever classed as loins these days. "Carpe Diem." Retrieving his long winter coat and scarf from the stand behind him, he bent to the intercom again. "Have one of the drivers meet me at the side entrance in Spring Gardens, please Anthea. Unless anything urgent arises, I won't return until tomorrow morning. Hold the fort as long as you can."

"Of course, sir."

Smiling briefly to himself, Mycroft could almost hear the thunderous rolling of eyes follow him down the corridor. It was best to strike while the iron was hot since he loathed shopping with a passion and seasonal gift-hunting in London always left him in a particularly foul mood. There was only so much good will and peace-on-earth a rational person could stand.

###

The entrance to Number Sixteen-B Fleet Street, a very particular kind of bookshop, was so small that passers-by often mistook it as a private doorway into the larger book store next door, at number sixteen. Some might question the sense of having two literary emporiums adjacent to one another, but this was London and there were never enough good bookshops, especially if the books collected together offered customers an unusual browsing experience...

 _The Assassin's Cabinet_ was just such an establishment, atypical in several ways. Firstly, it possessed no shop window, at least, none easily visible from the street. To view the volumes for sale, one first had to know the entrance was set back from passing foot traffic. A plain wooden door midway between Wildy & Sons, catering to readers in London's legal industry on the one side, and the offices of _Kallkwik_ on the other, catering to anyone who needed a large photocopier. Truthfully, the Assassin's Cabinet was a strange bedfellow to a law bookshop in business since the time of Victoria, and a copy-shop that printed posters, but again, this was London and few things were so strange here as to not exist at all.

Assuming one knew about the shop, referred to by its relatively limited circle of patrons simply as 'the Cabinet', one would also know the heavy wooden door dividing the shop from the pavement stood open only between the hours of 10am. and 4pm., Tuesday through to Saturday. Attempt to enter beyond those hours and all you might notice, if you were of a particularly observant nature, was the small button on the CCTV camera lodged high in the archway above the door, glowing briefly red as the camera recorded you for posterity. You might be more likely to observe there was no doorknob on the outside of the closed door.

Assuming however, one was able to visit the Cabinet during open hours, the curiously solid and rather heavy door would be wide open in virtually all weathers. A well-worn polished brass floor-plate covered a good eighteen inches of the entranceway, leading into a beautifully black-and-white Victorian tiled passageway which drew one further into the shop itself. Surely Dickens himself had been here.

The most peculiar thing was that all the books stood on tall bookshelves behind heavy sheets of plate glass. The glass began at the floor and reached to the tall ceiling. Each panel was polished to a brilliant gleam, free from fingerprints and the sticky evidence of small children. For this was not a shop to which one would bring a child, or even, one's parents if they were of a nervous disposition. The Cabinet was a bookshop that catered to a coterie of individuals with inquiring minds, robust bank-balances and a keen and abiding interest in the business of murder.

Had the Cabinet deigned to advertise its presence more widely, it would have been swamped by the _nouveau riche_ seduced into a frenzy by the quality of the merchandise on display. The place might even have become trendy, though apparently that was not the intention of the shop's proprietor, whose name appeared in fine gilt italics on the glass panel above the front door. Nobody who assembled such a collection of rare and fine books as the owner of the Cabinet needed to become fashionable.

Hosting an impressive catalogue of books, prints and publishing ephemera dating back well over four hundred years, the bookshop specialised in first or early editions of some of the greatest murder mysteries and whodunits known to the civilised world. Perhaps you desired to complete your noir collection with a primo first edition copy of Chandler's _The Big Sleep_ , one of a limited print run, complete with pristine dust-jacket and provenance? A mere $30,000 US dollars or £24,000 Stirling. Or perhaps you sought one of the first-edition Christie cliff-hangers, where an indefatigable Miss Marple saved the day? A lovingly kept copy could be yours for less than two thousand pounds. Possibly your taste ran to the slightly more gothic novels of Poe, whose fearless detective, M. August Dupin, disentangled murders in nineteenth-century Paris. The 1841 volume of 'Murders in the Rue Morgue' could be yours to take home for as little as £6000. Without question, The Assassin's Cabinet held the greatest collection of murder stories in London, and quite possibly, Europe.

Nor were foreign-language texts ignored. One enormous bookshelf was completely devoted to the killer narratives of Norwegian noir, Bolivian bloodshed and Martinique massacre. You were almost guaranteed to find any book you sought if it had been published within the last one hundred years and contained the requisite murderous activities. Naturally, not everyone could afford a price ticket of several zeroes, but there was a special display near the rear of the establishment where one might find a perfectly reasonable early copy of Ngaio Marsh or P.D. James for an unexceptional sum.

The Cabinet smelled vaguely of floor cleaner, fine leather and beeswax resin. It was cool inside but not cold, despite the acres of clear glass. The atmosphere felt softly humid and rich with the aroma of antique wood and expensive paper.

Having arranged for the delivery of a hand-made fly rod from Clemes in Upper Richmond Road for his father, Mycroft pondered his mother's gift for some time. It needed to be of sufficient extravagance to remove the lèse-majesté of last year's tea-towels, yet not _so_ lavish as to incur maternal disapproval at uncontrolled profligacy. It had to be expensive without being obviously _too_ expensive. It also needed to be slightly on the practical side yet still indulgent. He'd discovered the perfect gift in Covent Garden: a set of seven small copper saucepans he knew his mother had been lusting after for several years. He also purchased an electronic cookbook in a tablet form to which she could upload her own recipes. He'd tell her the gifts were from both he and Sherlock who invariably forgot Christmas until well into the New Year. And speaking of Baby Brother, Mycroft, as usual, was somewhat stumped with the perennial question. _What kind of gift did one get Sherlock?_

Clearly, it needed to be either cleverly intellectual, entirely infantile or somewhere in the unholy region of the bizarre. It should offer some momentary interest before being discarded, along with all the other gifts, into the bottom of his wardrobe or on the back of one of his homeless legions. A large box of old pistol parts would probably be more appreciated than anything new. Whatever gift was chosen, it needed to be unique at the very least. It should be something Sherlock could respect; therefore it also needed to possess a degree of seriousness. The last thing Sherlock would want was clothing or personal toiletries, nor did he need anything new for the flat. Sherlock disliked Mycroft's taste in almost everything: music, art, literature ... though a book was a definite possibility: a scientific tome? Perhaps a text from the early days of science? Something that reeked of outrageous chemistry, natural philosophy and unorthodox medical experiments? Mycroft smiled. It was the perfect idea. An antique volume recounting the beginnings of medicine and chemistry with a soupçon of grave-robbing thrown in. All he needed now was locate an antique bookseller in the vicinity of the Strand and all would be well. Alas, while there were any number of bookshops within his immediate gaze, they were all modern chain stores and unlikely to carry the sort of text he had in mind for Sherlock. Wrapping his scarf a little tighter, Mycroft Holmes gripped his long black umbrella and strolled on in the pale light of a wintery London afternoon.

###

The second corpse was uncannily similar to the first one discovered shortly after midnight. On the surface, they looked like suicides.

Both were white males of neat appearance; their bodies well-nourished, fit and in obvious good health. There were no distinguishing marks on either one, though the first cadaver had a pale ring on his right wrist where a watch would usually sit and a bullet-hole above his right ear. There had been no watch when he was discovered, lying on a bed in a locked room in a seedy little hostel in Hammersmith with a gun in his hand: peaceful and dead. Not that there was much blood or any other clothes in the room or a note, nor any indication of how the man had got into the cheap daily rental without being seen. The only unusual thing about the man, other than being dead in a locked room, was that his fingertips were red and abnormally spongey, as if they'd been dipped in some sort of mild acid.

Though Lestrade was a seasoned and broad-minded detective, he had a personal dislike of anonymous corpses on his patch; they were clearly the act of someone who spent far too much time planning mayhem which was worrying enough in itself. It also created an inordinate amount of paperwork.

This new body had been found less than an hour before, in, of all things, a small commercial greenhouse in Greenwich. Nearly identical to the first, a white male, mousy brown hair, late thirties, dressed in rough gardening clothes, gun in a hand with swollen fingertips. Cause of death was a single bullet wound to the left temple. Both deaths were strange and strangely neat. Were these simply coincidental suicides or had London become the stamping ground of a new serial killer?

Greg Lestrade preferred his deaths to be tidy, uncomplicated things: a stabbing outside a pub late at night perhaps, or a husband dead from rat poison. These were easily understood and dealt with. He had little interest in the ghoulish, the weird or the downright mystifying. Staring down at the quiet corpse lying among a bed of early daffodils, he knew exactly what he was going to do. Without another thought, he pulled out his phone and called a number he now had on speed dial.

"Sherlock? Fancy a ride down to Greenwich? Got a body in a commercial greenhouse with a bullet in his brain and no fingerprints. Could be a suicide though I'd appreciate your opinion. One of two similar deaths in the last twelve hours." A slow smile curved the detective's lips as he slid the phone back into an inner pocket. The speed with which the younger Holmes had asked for the address was gratifying. With a little bit of luck, they'd get enough from Sherlock to at least be able to start looking for the right kind of missing person. He looked down again at the dead man's hands. Despite the fingertips being pink and swollen, the hands themselves were clean and soft, certainly not the tools of a man who worked in a greenhouse. If anything, with the healthy, well-fed and well-toned torso, it suggested the guy had been in some indoor business. Perhaps there'd been a falling out among business partners. Money was probably at the root of many a murder and there were some pretty odd business people in a town the size of London. It would be interesting to see what Sherlock made of it all. Rubbing his hands together in the chill of the day, Lestrade folded his arms and let his team do their thing.

###

Mycroft recalled there were a number of reputable bookshops in the Temple area, though if he found nothing suitable there, he would have to brave Mayfair and see what Harrington's had that might suit. But since he was at this end of town, he may as well see what was on offer in the City before searching elsewhere.

Choosing to have the car call back for him in an hour, Mycroft walked comfortably along the Strand, passing King's College on his right. There would undoubtedly be something of interest in the bookshop there if nothing else. He saw what looked like several large windows full of books a little further on, deciding that if anything failed to eventuate in the next twenty minutes, he'd head back towards King's and his waiting car. Scanning the contents in the first few windows on his left, Mycroft shook his head at the unsuitability of the displays. How did modern book sellers survive if they all sold the same books? Frowning, he stood on the pavement outside the small bookshop catering to the surrounding legal businesses, smoothing the fine leather gloves tight over his hands as he looked for the nearest road crossing. It was sheerest chance his eye caught the glow of the open door directly behind him. A neatly tiled floor and glassed-in bookshelves drew his attention into what was clearly a book dealer's establishment.

Assuming these tomes might also be designed for the learned legal professionals in the Temple area, nevertheless Mycroft found the unusual arrangement of books and heavy glass windows sufficiently incongruous as to merit further inspection. Silently admiring the glossy brass fixtures and the strangely antiquated internal windows, Mycroft peered through the closest plate glass at the books on the most immediate set of shelves. Feeling a tingle of surprise and amusement, his mouth curved into an appreciative smile as he read the nearest titles.

 _Murder Yet to Come_ by Isabel Briggs Myers, she of Myer-Briggs fame. He had no idea the lady had brought her Jungian archetypes into the fictional world. Squinting, he peered through the glass at the small white card resting on the shelf in front of the text. _First UK edition, first impression. Winner of the Stokes-McClure Detective Story Competition (1929). Briggs Myers wrote only two detective stories, of which this is the first. She is best known today as the co-creator of the Myers-Briggs Type Indicator model, based on Carl Jung's theory of personality types, and now one the most widely used personality tests in the world._ How marvellous. If he found no other text, this one alone was a superb possibility for Sherlock. It was a little more than he'd expected to spend, but he doubted if even his brother would have a copy of this. How amusing it would be to see his expression as Sherlock removed the wrapping. Glancing along to the next few titles, Mycroft experienced a moment of disbelief.

T. S Eliot's _Murder in the Cathedral_ , Isaac Asimov's _Murder at the ABA_ , immediately next to a second Asimov story, _A Whiff of Death_. There was a first edition Le Carré only a shelf away from a three-volume study of the Ripper murders by J. F. Moylan, something Mycroft wouldn't mind reading himself. In every direction he looked, there were names of well-known authors cheek-by-jowl with nonentities, all, no doubt, giving of their writerly best in the art of murder. Crichton's classic _Andromeda Strain_ ; a rare hardback of Bukowski's _Pulp_ , a copy of Follet's _World Without End_ , signed and leather-bound. His eyes skimmed each of the shelves running along both sides of the strangely glassed-in passageway, which were, as far as he could see, filled with similar-themed texts. What an absolutely stunning find. Was there even the slightest chance Sherlock had not yet discovered this magnificent accumulation of fictitious homicide?

Turning, he stepped back to the narrow doorway, glancing up at the gilt writing on the glass above the open door. The golden italics, so fine as to be barely visible, proclaimed this emporium to be The _Assassin's Cabinet, Prop. A. A. Devereaux_. Mycroft took a brief professional interest in the small white CCTV camera lodged almost invisibly at the apex of the passageway above the door, one of the new generation Samsungs with some interesting features. Hardly surprising the shop took its security seriously with the wealth of literary gold inside. Mycroft knew he'd found the solution to the problem of Sherlock's gifts for the next fifty years. With a smart flick of his coat, he re-entered the shop wondering just how extravagant he was about to be.

As far as he could see, he was the only customer in the establishment. Walking the length of the crisply tiled passageway, he wondered how far back the place ran, observing a small sales desk ahead, with an open doorway behind it. As he watched, a small woman with a neat bun of blonde hair, wearing large dark spectacles and Primark office clothing, came through the door, closing it firmly behind her. His entire concentration was on the opened book in her hand. Stepping up behind the desk, the woman seemed unaware he was there, watching her. He must have eventually made some sound as she lifted her eyes abruptly, staring directly at him, her entire posture suddenly alert.

 _Interesting_. If it wasn't for the fact she was obviously a sales-assistant, only inches over five feet, Mycroft would have taken her oddly vigilant stance as one used to sizing up dangerous situations; she had analysed his presence in a single glance before visibly relaxing, smiling professionally.

"I'm sorry; I wasn't expecting anyone this late in the day." The woman closed the book in her hand and laid it on the desk. Her accent was American with a soft Californian inflection. "I do all my paperwork around this time, you see."

"I had no idea such a magnificent collection as this existed in London," Mycroft returned her careful smile, walking slowly towards the desk and removing his gloves as he continued to scan the interior of the shop. Something had set his own senses at the ready and he would not be happy now until he'd identified the cause. The woman's atypical reaction to his presence was, of course, one reason, but not the only one.

There were two more closed-circuit cameras in here that he could see, though it didn't mean there were _only_ two. He had noticed the absence of an external door handle, as well as the strange locking mechanism of high-tensile steel bolts set deeply into the body of the solid wooden door. When the door closed, it would be like the inside of a bank vault in here. Was that what had set his instincts tingling? Or perhaps it had been the woman herself, though she was such a petite thing, there could be nothing in her appearance to pose a threat ... he reconsidered her strangely perceptive gaze. Blinking, he pushed his concern to one side, as he pulled off his second glove.

"Such an unusual name for a bookshop," he murmured, his eyes strafing the rest of the shop for clues. "Such an extraordinary collection."

"The owner's sense of humour," the woman smiled again, a careful, judged movement of her mouth. Her eyes narrowed fractionally. "Based on the original Assassin's Cabinet, of course," she added, waving to one side of the desk, an enigmatic expression on her face. Following the gesture, Mycroft noticed a strange object standing alone on the small round table, enclosed within a glass dome. He examined the item more closely.

A book, seventeenth-century by the look of it, substantial and heavily bound in leather, with two slim brass clasps to hold the pages closed. To the casual observer, that was all it might be but it was clear that, in such a place as this, with magnificent, costly volumes on every shelf, every item was far more interesting than could be evaluated by an initial glance. Leaning a little closer, Mycroft first thought it was a carved block of wood, then realised it was actually _was_ a book, though all the pages had been stuck together to form a solid block. With growing interest, Mycroft walked around the side of the exhibit, finally realising the supposed book had, in fact, been turned into a small box, with the open front cover as a lid. There were no pages inside, instead ...

A rectangular carved-out space, filled with a dozen tiny drawers, each one with a minute silver knob. There was a miniscule copperplate label on each of the drawers. Squinting, Mycroft was able to make out the Latin words, 'Datura Stram' on one, while the drawer above read 'Valerian Off.'. Apparently, the drawers contained a variety of toxic drugs frequently used as poison. The hand-drawn plate gracing the inside of the books front cover of an unfortunate skeleton lent credence to this assumption. The faded Latin on the spine of the book was hardly readable, "The Practice of Regulating the Hyacinth". While this would make little sense to most people, the toxic qualities of the hyacinth bulb made it the perfect title for such an astonishing little curio.

Mycroft smiled. "A true assassin's cabinet," he peered down at the small green-glass bottle in the cabinet, complete with its own tiny Latin label. "Statutum est hominibus semel mori," he read slowly.

"It is a fact that man must die one day," the woman was watching his expression as if wondering what he might do with such knowledge.

Standing back up to his full height, Mycroft looked thoughtful, the feeling he was still missing something nagged at him. What could there possibly be in this place that had set him so on edge? Though he rarely acted solely on instinct these days, he trusted his own not to lead him astray. There was only one way to find out more. Smiling politely, he clasped his now ungloved hands.

"I'm looking for a Christmas gift for a difficult relative and am frankly overwhelmed by the exquisite choices I've already seen in the last few minutes. Ms Devereaux, I take it?"

The blonde gave him another calculated look before shaking her head briefly. "Patricia Jager, shop manager. Mr Devereaux, the owner, is rarely here. He tours the international book fairs looking for new stock and comes to London only infrequently. As you can imagine, the quality of our merchandise is critical and can take a great deal of finding. I act with Mr Deveraux's full authority, however. Was there something specific you had in mind? If we don't have a particular text in stock, I can certainly ask Mr Deveraux to keep his eyes open for it on his travels."

"Nothing specific, no," Mycroft smiled fleetingly while continuing a discreet scan of the premises. "I feel rather spoiled for choice and narrowing the selection will not be easy. My brother, himself a chemist, has a fondness for corpses. This place would be nirvana for him."

"Chemistry, hmm?" The Jager woman sounded momentarily thoughtful. "Have you looked at the selection over here?" she asked, directing Mycroft's attention to a glassed-in bookcase to the left of the desk. "We carry a useful range of chemistry books."

Unsure of the context in which chemistry books might be _useful_ , turning his head, Mycroft scanned the titles she indicated. There were a wide range of Agatha Christie's murderous whodunits, each featuring her knowledge of the chemical and pharmaceutical sciences. Several of them he saw, were first editions and must have been worth a small fortune. There were also less sublime titles by less august personages. Several were of relatively recent genesis: Blum's _The Poisoner's Handbook_ , Bradley's _Speaking from Among the Bones_ and Emsley's _The Sordid tale of Murder, Fire and Phosphorous_ were the first to catch his attention. None of these were more than twenty years old and though these examples were indeed first editions, they were not among the rarest blooms in this hothouse of death.

"Do you have anything older than these?" a slight curve remained on his lips.

"Does it need to be in English?" the blonde lifted her eyebrows. "I have a nice Claude Genneté, but it's in the original French. Second edition, seventeen-sixty. An important work on chimneys and their dangers of carbon monoxide poisoning; it was the latest technology at the time on making chimneys draw properly and preventing smoke in rooms," she paused, her blue eyes watchful and wary.

"It sounds intriguing, though I was hoping for something perhaps a little more ... lethal," Mycroft held her gaze without blinking.

The light of challenge rising in her eyes, the woman's smile seemed genuine for the first time. "Why," she raised her eyebrows. "I do believe a gauntlet just hit the floor." rubbing her chin with a fingertip, Patricia Jager appeared to come to a decision. "How much are you ready to spend?"

Mycroft noted she hadn't asked him how much he _could_ spend. "Under a thousand," he tapped his umbrella's ferrule gently on the clean white tiles at his feet. "This time."

"A reasonable sum for the gift of an only brother."

Keeping his expression unchanged, Mycroft flashed a cool smile. "I don't recall saying anything about having an only brother," he said quietly.

"Ah, but you did, you know," the blonde woman walked past him, heading off towards another bookshelf to one side. "You said 'my brother, himself a chemist,'" she added, turning to meet his eyes, not an easy thing to do with nearly a foot of height difference between them. "If you had multiple brothers, you'd have said something like 'one of my brothers is a chemist.'"

 _So_. Ms Jager was demonstrably observant in more ways than one. Not unexceptional in itself but it added to the image Mycroft had been creating in his mind from the first time she had looked at him with that unusual, piercing gaze. Time would tell if he was correct in his hypothesis.

###

Of course, the first thing the great black stork went and did was sniff the corpse's fingers, after ripping the plastic bag from one of the dead man's hands. Then he sniffed the man's hair.

" _Sherlock_ , you _know_ you don't get to touch potential evidence until forensics has had a go!" Greg felt his blood pressure rise.

"Relax, Inspector," the younger Holmes stood erect almost as swiftly as he'd bent over, carefully sliding stiffened fingers back into the plastic cover. "It doesn't take long to discern the distinctive aroma of concentrated Pineapple juice."

"Pineapple juice?" Greg frowned. "Is that what's made the fingertips swell up?"

"A low-tech though surprisingly effective method of rendering a person's fingerprints unreliable for up to twelve hours," Sherlock's attention was still focused on the deceased lying peacefully in the daffodils. "This was a very professional job. Whoever did this wasn't trying to remove the prints permanently, only to create a window of opportunity."

"Not a suicide then?" Lestrade made a face. He'd been hopeful of a quick solution.

"A window for what?" John Watson, arms folded and standing at Lestrade's side looked curious as he watched his flatmate examine the rest of the body and immediate surrounds. "To keep the police in the dark?"

"Precisely, John." Sherlock turned back to Greg, nodding down at the corpse. "Not a suicide. He didn't work here and he didn't die here," he said, tugging his gloves back on. "Very little blood, no sign of a note, no reason, in fact, for someone who works in the City to be anywhere near here in the first place," he added, scanning the rest of the greenhouse.

"How can you tell he worked in the City?" Greg frowned.

"Really, Inspector. Do you doubt the evidence of your own eyes?" Crouching, Sherlock lifted one of the bagged hands, ripping the plastic away once again, ignoring Lestrade's squawk of indignation. Turning the back of the corpse's hand upwards, Sherlock glanced down at the neatly manicured fingernails. "Not the hands of anyone who moves more than a keyboard and a the odd sheet of paper," he announced. "And anyone with a nose can tell he's been using a specialist Rassoul clay thickening paste in his hair, sold only in a few very up-market salons in the centre of London. At nearly fifty quid a pop, he'd need to have a job that paid extremely well. You said there was an earlier similar death?"

"Yeah. The body was found in a nasty little dosshouse out at Hammersmith. He was discovered not long after midnight when a customer tried to get into the room he'd just rented and found it was locked from the inside. They had the fright of their lives when they found the bloke," Lestrade smiled without humour. "There's no real witnesses as nobody remembers hearing or seeing anything. Want to take a look?"

"The first corpse was found in a similar state, in a locked room in a boarding house and nobody knows how it got there?" Sherlock's expression lit up. "A locked room murder? Are you _mad?_ Of _course_ I have to examine the scene."

John's turned resigned eyes towards the detective. "You _had_ to tell him it was a locked room mystery," he muttered, unfolding his arms and shaking his head at Lestrade. "I'll be lucky to get any dinner tonight unless laughing boy here solves the case before it gets dark."

"I'll have one of my lot escort you down and let you in," Greg beckoned to a uniformed officer talking on a phone. "Let me know what you can after you've seen the place. There's a fire-escape, but it's a floor and two rooms over from the room the body was in, so nobody could have used it. It's a bit of a puzzler."

Smiling cursorily, Sherlock patted the DI pityingly on the shoulder but said nothing as he strode towards the greenhouse entrance with John a half-step behind.

###

Despite his earlier announcement that he'd not be returning to the office, Anthea was not terribly surprised to see the tall thin figure taking a short-cut through her office before entering his own, though by the thick package tucked under his arm, it appeared the shopping expedition had been at least marginally successful

"I need some information on a Patricia Jager," he wasted no time with small talk. "American, probably lived in the southern Californian area for a number of years. Works in an intriguing bookshop at 16B Fleet Street. There's a very expensive security camera in the entranceway and at least two internal feeds. See if you can get into any of them. The owner is one A. A. Devereaux, though his nationality is unknown; may also be American. Supposedly travels a great deal, so no doubt Border Control will be able to fill in a few gaps," he added. "And some tea would be nice, please." Without another word, Mycroft had stalked off to his own office, closing the connecting door quite firmly.

For a few seconds Anthea sat in thought. Her Director was a man of rare passion but he never did anything without good cause. The package under his arm had been book-shaped, thus it could be reasoned he'd seen something or discovered something at the bookshop that had given him cause for concern. Clearly, something had set him off, though he wasn't sure what, given the imprecise instructions he'd thrown her way as he walked past. Typing out a standard property and credit search on the address, she also sent out an additional two searches on the individuals Mycroft had mentioned. They should be ready for her when she returned. Heading to the small though beautifully equipped area serving the department as a kitchen and tea-room, Anthea ran through a mental list of the places she might use to acquire a range of additional data. The Home Office for prison records and possible criminal history; H.M. Tax office for corporate income and taxes. The DVLA could be surprisingly useful too, not to mention the things one might extract from the Westminster Council. Placing Mycroft's tea things on a small silver tray, she knocked on the door between their offices. His laptop was open and obviously in use, yet he was sat back in his chair with steepled fingers and a far-away expression in his eyes. "Wouldn't you say Anthea," he mused quietly. "That a luxury Canary Wharf residence is probably just a little beyond the reach of a manager in a small London bookshop?

"Depends who owns the bookshop and how generous they are," raising her eyebrows fractionally, Anthea set Mycroft's tea things in their usual place. "The only reason I can afford to live there is because you keep everyone's pay and salary loadings well above the norm," she added, standing back, gauging his expression. "On balance, I'd say most employees in the book retail industry couldn't afford it."

" _Mmm_. I agree." Glancing briefly back at his laptop screen. "Make inquiries into the ownership of apartments on the forty-first floor of the Arena Tower if you would," Mycroft tapped a couple of keys. "Run an extended search on the names that crop up," he pursed his mouth. "I have a feeling."

The Arena Tower? Anthea said nothing as she headed back to her own office, but her eyebrows arched a little higher than before. That was some serious real estate, even for London. She knew for a fact that one-room studio apartment there started at over a half-mil on the lower floors, so the price for a flat near the top with a view would be astronomical. She wondered what Mycroft had discovered in a bookshop.

###

She worded the advertisement with extreme care, as the message could afford no ambiguity whatsoever. Patricia Jager's eyes flickered over the museum-worthy first edition presentation copy of Truman Capote's _In Cold Blood_. Signed by the author and in near-mint condition, it was worth a considerable sum of money; though that wasn't the reason the blonde woman took such great care with her phrasing. It was, quite literally, a matter of life and death.

' _For the discerning buyer. Truman Capote, In Cold Blood. 1st edn. Published by Random House, New York, 1965. Hardcover. First Edition. INSCRIBED and SIGNED by the author to his friend Marcel Harcourt on the first blank: 'for my admirable associate/Marcel Harcourt/from his client/Truman Capote'._ _£1_ _0k. Contact the Assassin's Cabinet, London, at thecabinet@fasthost.co _if interested'_._

Sitting back, the woman nodded in quiet satisfaction as she sent the completed copy to the advertising site of The Times newspaper. This would be the third auction she'd posted in as many weeks. Assuming there was a similar level of response to this one, she should be able to close the contract within the next ten days. At this rate, the Cabinet would need to admit a few new members to cope with increasing business.

###

Photographs, no matter how numerous or comprehensive, could never take the place of a real body. They were too sterile, lacking any form of genuinely _organic_ evidence. Yet a large manila envelope filled with police-standard digital Polaroids, the sheaf of images including various overviews, mid-range shots and a wad of close-ups was all Sherlock had. Fortunately, whoever put the collection together for him possessed the forethought to include a copy of the photographer's photo log, providing at least a little more context.

"They came in through the window, obviously," Sherlock sniffed along the dusty sill. "Faint traces of Pineapple," he murmured, moving swiftly across the room to the bed, still bearing the imprint of a body. "Upper middle-class professional," he muttered, staring between the dent in the bed and the photographs. "Banker, perhaps or lawyer. Something in the City." Striding over to the window again, Sherlock examined the window catch before heaving the old sash-cord frame upwards and thrust the upper half of his torso through it, leaning dangerously off kilter as he stared upwards and across at the various pipes and windows on the rear of the large hostel building. "Broken catch meant the window couldn't be completely locked tight. Two men brought the body up the fire escape and then lowered it down to this window by night ... wonder how they knew which window to aim for in the dark?" Leaning back out through the window, Sherlock ran fingertips along the outer edge of the painted sill. " _Aha_ ," he held up his hand to John. "No paint flakes."

"Yeah, so no paint," John stuck his head out the window, taking a moment to glance across at other windowsills in the adjacent rooms. Their sills were covered with old, flaking oil paint of a dirty grey colour. He leaned a little further out of the window. The sill was a blindingly smooth strip of white. " _Ah_ ," he nodded. Simple when you knew what to look for.

"The victim was killed elsewhere, probably enroute from his place of business after dark. The killer or killers brought the body here, probably wrapped in something dark to avoid attention, dragging the corpse in through a window previously been marked as the right one ..." Sherlock paused momentarily. "Judging by the state of the fresh paint, I'd say this room was chosen a few days ago. It shouldn't be too difficult to find out who had access to a key in the last week."

Unfortunately for Sherlock's deductions, according to the scant evidence provided by a solitary security camera in the foyer, as well as the signatures in the Registration book, the room had not only seen numerous 'Mr Smiths', there had also been a goodly number of 'Mr and _Mrs_ Smiths', as well as a raft of cleaning and maintenance staff. Almost any one of them could have painted the window sill and broken the old catch.

"But this was a professional job, albeit somewhat excessive," Sherlock compressed his lips. "Why go to so much trouble to hide the body? Why not just dump it in some abandoned warehouse? What were they hoping to achieve by leaving the body in a locked room?"

"Whoever did it obviously knew the British police system," John leaned back again a wall and folded his arms. "They must have had a pretty good idea of the identification procedures the police follow and if they wanted extra time to get away, making a puzzle out of the death would have been a clever idea."

Nodding slowly, Sherlock nibbled his lower lip. "Especially if they had planned to commit a _second_ murder using a similar method," he said, heading for the hotel entrance. "Get a taxi John. We must return to Greenwich!"

###

Pulling up another website on his laptop, Mycroft found it hard to resist a smile. Not the most novel arrangement for maintaining a low profile but a surprisingly effective one. Of course, having two passports would make the whole thing much more simple, however the owner of the Assassin's Cabinet had not taken into account the pathological need of the British authorities to preserve and retain all manner of ancient records. Glancing down at the magnified details on the screen, he observed this particular document had been recorded more than thirty years prior, though only recently transferred to a digital database. Probably the notion of a fully searchable computerised database hadn't even been on the cards back then. Mycroft smiled. This answered at least one of his questions, though not all. Now he needed to access an altogether different database, one with a great deal more security. Opening up the appropriate security portal, he began entering the first of three unique and rather complex passwords in French.

###

Though the Greenwich corpse had been removed since their last visit, Sherlock brushed past the uniformed police officer standing guard over the crime scene, paying little attention to the crushed and flattened spring flowers but rather made a beeline to the handle of the closed greenhouse.

"There's a thin stripe of white paint across the top of this door," John stared up at the metal frame. "Just like the windowsill back at the hostel."

"Indeed, John," Sherlock stood from his bent position. "And the locking mechanism of this door has been deliberately broken, an almost identical practice to the window catch of the locked room."

"This is a thing, then?" John looked around as if there might still be undiscovered clues. "A definite connection between the two deaths?"

"Oh yes John," the younger Holmes sounded momentarily distant. "Not only are we looking at the same murderous procedure but we are now seeking two different killers."

"Two?" John frowned. "Even though the same method was used, the bullet to the side of the head, the body left stripped and with their fingerprints soaked off? You reckon there'd be two murderers knocking around London killing people in the same way? Bit far-fetched, don't you think? Bit _too_ coincidental?"

"John, _look_." Holding up one of the eight by twelve close ups from the manila envelope, Sherlock demanded his flatmate's focused attention. "This is a photograph of the body in the hostel. Tell me what you see."

Taking a deep breath, John stared at the picture which showed an unpleasantly clear image of the side of the dead man's head with a neat little bullet hole making a cause of death pretty obvious. "Dead bloke with a bullet in the side of his head," John's eyes flicked between the image and Sherlock's unimpressed face. Clearly he was missing something.

"Which side?"

Reaching fingers up towards the spot on his own head, John tapped the skin with a finger. "Right temple" he said. "The photo shows a bullet to the right temple."

"And yet, the body we saw in this greenhouse not more than an hour ago was killed by a bullet on the _left_ side of his head!" to emphasis his point, Sherlock stabbed at his own left temple. "Different _sides_ John! Different _sides!"_

"Yeah, so the killer killed his victims from different angles," John frowned. When you were trying to take someone out, the last thing you worried about was where, exactly, you shot him. As long as you took your opponent down, that was the main thing.

As if reading his thoughts, Sherlock shook his head. "This isn't a battlefield, John. This isn't a war. This is cold-blooded artistry. Both of these murders were carried out by a professional. Every professional killer in the book has their own style, their own preferences; the form of dispatch, choice of weapon, location, timing, all of it. No specialist worth their salt would dream of altering their technique like this. It's their signature John, and there's two different signatures here."

Standing silently as he absorbed the information, John frowned. It made sense in some ghastly way. "Yes, _but_ ," he began shaking his head. Something was very off here. "It's a bit coincidental that both these deaths are almost the same in so many ways, isn't it?" Even if there were two different murderers doing business in London, there were still too many similarities to discount.

"Yes John," Sherlock smoothed the leather gloves across the back of his hands, a faintly feral grin curving his mouth. "Exactly. And you know how I feel about coincidence."

"Lestrade won't know about this yet, will he? He'll still be looking for only one murderer." John looked thoughtful.

"Indeed he will." Sherlock looked well pleased with the world. "Which should give us just enough time to find the killers before the police do."

###

Well, well, _well_. This was all exceedingly interesting.

"Anthea, a moment of your time, please."

###

Greg Lestrade sat behind his desk, deep in thought, his bottom lip protruding as he considered the facts of the matter. One of the tech wizards upstairs had managed to scavenge a brief clip of useful footage from the market garden's knackered old security camera, so old not even the owner knew how many times the overgrown device had recorded and re-recorded its nightly observations from the entrance to the small shack that served both as general office and storage shed. The fuzzy, flickering images of the previous night showed two grey images of men carrying a heavy grey log between them. It didn't take a genius to work out what was going on. No matter how much he'd peered at the bleary recording, Greg had not been able to make out any specific details and he'd sighed in disappointment. He'd had the old cassette of tape sent to the lab in a vain hope the AV experts down there might be able to enhance the visibility.

"Lestrade," he tucked his ringing desk phone into the crook of his neck as he clicked his mouse through a series of unread emails. "You what?" Forgetting all about the emails, he sat back, a grin beginning to emerge on his face. "You're yanking my chain ... _really?_ You _beauty_. I'm on my way down." Striding out of his glass-walled office, he caught Sally's eye as he headed towards the lift.

"The lab boys got us a partial licence plate," he grinned. " _Now_ we're getting somewhere."

###

John leaned back against a convenient wall as Sherlock spoke rapidly to two of his homeless network representatives in a low voice. Though he was too far away to hear the words, it was clear his lanky flatmate was giving his two amateur spies a series of instructions. A couple of high denomination banknotes changed hands and the two agents headed off with a determined step.

"There's something going on that puzzles me, John," Sherlock returned, rearranging his scarf a little closer around his long neck. "For there to be two such murders almost back to back, committed by two different professional killers yet sharing so many commonalities, leads us to only one possible conclusion."

"It does?" John wasn't sure where the leap of intuition had come from, but Sherlock was rarely wrong when he made his declamations of indecipherable logic. "Care to share with the small-brains in the area?"

"Think John," Sherlock was already walking down the pavement looking for a cab. "If two or more people do a very specific task in a very similar way, even though they are totally different individuals, what does that suggest to you?"

"That they know each other?" John made a valiant stab in the dark. "That they're sharing the job between them? They're partners, possibly?"

"Close, but no coconut," Sherlock lifted his right arm peremptorily "Cab!"

Inside the warm interior of the London taxi, John chewed his lower lip. "There has to be some connection between the ... operatives if they're doing these ... _jobs_ ... in such a similar manner." John was suddenly aware of the listening cabbie. "But if they're not partners or working together, then ..." His words tailed off as another possibility struck him. Though the notion was absurd, of course.

"Yes?" Though Sherlock's features remained neutral, there was humour in his voice. "Go on, John. You're almost there."

"Then, these guys have to be working to some kind of instruction, some form of plan they've been given ... like a set of guidelines or something?"

"Not ' _like'_ John, ' _are'_. You've reached the crux of the matter. We're looking for an organisation which deals in the removal of certain individuals, a marketplace for hitmen, if you will, recruiting lone wolves and farming out contracts according to place and time. These two deaths confirm a suspicion I've had for some time though lacked sufficient evidence to demarcate. There's a murderous cabal operating in London John, and I need to speak to my brother about it."

"You think Mycroft will have information on a group of paid murderers?"

"If there's an operation of this nature anywhere in Britain, I'm sure my brother will end up knowing everything about them. I'm a little more interested in getting him to inquire about any international links. There's very few pies in which his fat fingers haven't dabbled."

Folding his arms, John nibbled his lip again. This was the sort of thing Mycroft kept close to his chest. If he hadn't said anything already, there were good odds the elder Holmes might not be as forthcoming as Sherlock hoped.

"There's another possibility," he said slowly. "Have you considered Mycroft might know all about this organisation for all the wrong reasons?"

Scowling, Sherlock turned to stare at his friend. "You suggest my brother might be using the group for his own purposes?" Furrowing his dark eyebrows, the younger Holmes considered the idea for less than three seconds, before shaking his head decisively. "I very much doubt Mycroft would outsource one of the key political mechanisms at his disposal," he said. "It's safer for this kind of thing to carry a governmental stamp whenever possible."

About to ask him what he meant, John closed his mouth. He wasn't entirely sure he wanted to know any more than he actually did about the elder Holmes' work.

"No John, this can only be a commercial enterprise, and I need to get hold of whatever information Mycroft may have," he added, swinging the door open as the cab cruised to a halt at the junction of the Mall and Spring Gardens. Throwing the driver a couple of twenties, Sherlock was on his phone before John even had his feet on the pavement. "If my brother hadn't been so adamant about reclaiming his Ultra clearance, we'd be inside his wretched office by now," he muttered impatiently. " _Finally"_ as his call was answered.

All the blond man caught were fragments of a very brief and one-sided conversation. Apparently, Mycroft was not in his office and it looked like Sherlock wasn't getting much joy out of Anthea either judging by the deepening V of his flatmate's eyebrows and the rather telling huff as he stuffed his phone away.

"Mycroft's unavailable, which means he's either overseas, involved in some dubious political collusion, or he's stuck in a restaurant somewhere, eating himself into an early death."

"Give him a break, Sherlock," John knew from personal experience that, while perhaps not the most sociable of people, Mycroft Holmes wasn't as bad as he'd first thought. "He does have an important job."

"Which my brother could probably manage with one hand tied behind his back and half a brain." Sherlock sighed theatrically. "Oh very well. Then we'll do this the tedious way. Stepping to the edge of the wide Portland stone pavement, Sherlock held up his arm as a black cab swung into the kerb. "Scotland Yard, please."

###

Patricia Jager stepped out of the sublimely elegant lift on the forty-first floor of the Arena Tower in Canary Wharf. The unique magnetic lock of the apartment door opened noiselessly to her personal keycard, giving entrance to a sumptuous and sophisticated dwelling, with soaring views overlooking the old Millwall Docks, as well as a vista stretching across some of the most wide-open spaces in the capital, centred, as the building was, on the Isle of Dogs in London's heartland.

Kicking off her neat shop shoes, she headed across the vividly white carpet, punctuated only by jet black furniture, towards a black Japanned sideboard which acted as a drinks service. Pouring a generous measure of aged Laphroaig, she swirled the golden liquid lazily around a single large sphere of ice before downing the drink in two strong swallows. Closing her eyes as the spiced toffee flavour warmed her throughout, she sighed indulgently. It had been a long day and sometimes, doing what she did left her cynical and feeling very weary. Maybe it was time to consider a change of career? If the evening had been a normal one, tonight would have been a good night for the theatre, something classical and comforting ... Shakespeare perhaps, or possibly something in one of those hidden little playhouses in the West End. An early dinner and a show would have been fabulous ... Patricia sighed again and contemplated a second drink. But no, not tonight of all nights.

Walking through to her bedroom, she threw her respectably dull bookshop clothing into a corner be dealt with later, and walked naked into her rather splendid ensuite. Tapping a small electronic keypad near the doorway, the calming strains of a Mozart string quartet filled the air as she strolled into the dark, slate-tiled shower, the air around her already misting with a warm, rain forest shower. Her favourite toiletries at her fingertips, she chose carefully, selecting an Yves Saint Laurent product that smelled wonderfully of orange and spice. Not a perfume she could easily wear at the shop during the day, Patricia luxuriated now in its rich, sensuous opulence. Shaking out her shoulder-length golden hair, she washed it quickly and efficiently, quietly thankful she had only herself to please in her habits.

Once dried, she walked, still naked, across to a high wall of sliding doors which opened with the merest touch of a finger. Ignoring the small selection of what she called her 'office' clothes, Patricia walked to the far end of her extensive wardrobe, selecting a finely knitted high-necked, long sleeved cashmere dress in a deep purple that floated warmly around her calves. Wrapping a long amethyst and platinum chain around her neck, she stepped into a pair of customised Jimmy Choo black leather boots which made no sound when she walked. Fastening heavy platinum earrings to her ears, she tugged on a pair of black leather gloves so thin the shape of her nails were outlined, before sliding an ornate amethyst ring over her index finger on the outside of the glove. After calling a familiar number on her mobile, she folded herself into a thick, deep teal winter coat, picking up a slim Hermes bag containing the basic necessities of a handkerchief, a powder compact and lipstick, a black credit card and a solid but relatively dainty nine millimetre Glock.

Despite the fact she had wasted no time making her way back down to the foyer of the building, the Mercedes was already waiting for her. It always was.

"The usual, Madam?" The improbably good looking young man smiled winningly in the rear-view mirror, though it did him no good. She was far beyond such gauche seduction.

"Yes. Fleet Street."

###

"So let me get this right," Greg Lestrade pressed an open palm hard across his eyes as if to block out the Holmes element of this particular equation. "You're telling me what we're dealing with is a conspiracy of killers, yeah? A whole bunch of murderers-for-hire, working out of London and taking instructions from some mysterious collective, though you're not sure what it is yet, and which may or may not have international connections, though you're unclear what they might be. Your brother's not answering his phone, you can't get any joy from his assistant and so you want me to get my people on it ... have I missed anything?"

"An inelegant summation but close enough, Inspector." Sherlock sat at ease in one of Greg's office chairs. John was in the other looking far less comfortable.

"What proof can you give me?" Lestrade had not been born yesterday. Wild and precarious leaps of intuition might be all well and good for the Holmes boys but for a middling officer of the law, slightly more tangible evidence was needed. "Got names for me, have you? Video or written records? Got a warm body banged up in one of the interview rooms for me to question?"

"All in good time, Lestrade," the younger Holmes ignored the fact his veracity had just being impugned. "I need you and your people to begin an urgent investigation into the recent travel habits and current whereabouts of any known assassins in the United Kingdom. I want to know when they arrived, where they're staying and a list of any known associates."

"That's Home Office turf," Greg sat forward, leaning on his untidy desk. "Not us poor defenders of public safety," he added. "You should ask your brother for that kind of gen."

Visibly compressing his lips, Sherlock scowled heavily before lunging to his feet. "Come, John. We've no time to waste in such unproductive yammering."

Lestrade was about to call both men back but his office door slammed with just a _little_ too much force. _Sod 'em_. Lifting his desk phone, he dialled a rarely-used number. "Put me through to Aaron Franklin please," he requested. He might not have the same kind of clout with Ports and Airports that Sherlock's brother did, but he still knew one or two useful individuals.

###

A low light shone through the glass fanlight above the closed bookshop entrance. Ignoring the fact her every move was being observed and recorded, Patricia Jager stepped from the sleek limousine and walked unhurriedly to stand in front of the heavy door. Sliding a hand into her right coat pocket, she depressed the single button of a small device. Within seconds, there was a faint _click,_ and the door swung inward just a fraction. Pushing it with the flat of her hand before allowing it to close unaided, she walked without concern along the softly lit glass-walled passageway with the books as dumb witnesses to her presence. In moments, she reached the smaller and far less imposing entrance behind the sales desk. This too was locked though it clicked open as she depressed the device's button a second time. Pushing this one wide, Patricia strolled inside.

The room beyond was small and contained heaped boxes of books, as well as a small table clearly used as an amateur bookbinding station. Continuing her progress into the depth of the building, she reached the very rear of the room, facing a wall literally covered with books from floor to ceiling. Leaning across to her right, she found two unimportant titles side by side and pressed them both forward together. There was no click this time, only a faint grinding felt in the soles of her boots. The bookcase split apart just left of centre, with a tall, narrow section receding back and then sideways, revealing a far less obvious entrance. Standing motionless, Patricia knew her presence was being automatically tracked by one of several invisibly tiny cameras, though she gave no sign of it. The secret doorway from the shop let into a tall, narrow passageway which held a shining metal frame the width of the corridor and nearly three meters high, set flush into the floor and walls. Without a pause, she stepped through, knowing she was being scanned by a full-sized non-ionizing electromagnetic mechanism which would record not only her external characteristics but, even more importantly, her biometrics. Her very heartbeat was being recorded. She stood a little taller. If anyone attempted to pass through this device who was not supposed to ... their earthly worries would be over.

A sudden brighter light ahead told her all was well and that, once again, the system had acknowledged her for who she was. Relaxing, she walked calmly forward, into a much larger space, an oddly darkened room of significant dimensions with a stone-fitted floor. There was an outsized horseshoe-shaped table in front of her, with seven tall-backed chairs spaced around the perimeter and one more standing in the open mouth of the table. Her boot steps silent, Patricia walked around to the chair at the apex of the table, _her place_. She was early and therefore the first. _She always was_. As she claimed her seat at the head of the table, she brushed her fingers immediately beneath the edge, locating a series of inconspicuous buttons. Pressing the far left one, an arrangement of subdued and very carefully placed ceiling lights threw immediate and even darker shadows across and behind the table, each one corresponding with one of the seven tall chairs. Whoever sat in these chairs would be in complete darkness, which was exactly as it should be.

Removing her long coat, she hung it carefully on one of a series of wall-mounted hooks beside a wide escritoire against the rear wall of the room. The Glock she removed from her bag and slid into a narrow shelf immediately beneath the table in front of her chair. There were several bottles standing on top of the escritoire and she selected the first one that caught her eye. Pouring herself a glass of darkest burgundy before taking her seat, it wouldn't be long now before the others arrived. Less than four minutes later, she was proved correct. The faintest sound of a far-off door closing alerted her and the fingers of her right hand closed softly around the butt of the gun. There was always a vague possibility some opportunistic street criminal might manage to break into the 'street' entrance to this very private chamber through the carpark at the rear of the building. Unlikely, but still possible and so it made sense to be prepared. If someone broke in, Patricia Jager would make certain they did not break back out. Soft footsteps echoed on stone ... they paused in the same place she had as the scanner did its work. The light gleamed golden for an instant before the footsteps approached.

"Good evening, Christie." A tall thin man began unwrapping a long scarf from his oddly vulnerable neck.

You're sounding much better tonight Poe," Patricia smiled briefly as the man helped himself to what she knew from habit would be a measure of rye whisky. Bringing the glass with him, he sat two seats away from the head of the table.

"Yes, thank God. That wretched cold made it impossible to do anything properly." The tall man sipped the whiskey and sounded as though he was relaxing, though the darkness prevented visual confirmation. "Is there much business to get through tonight?"

"Only a couple of issues. Don't worry," she raised her eyebrows. "I have little desire to hang around either. I hope the others don't keep us waiting too long."

As Patricia spoke, the sound of the far door reverberated along the corridor, along with the murmur of several different voices. With a reassuring series of golden flashes, a further four individuals entered the room and took their respective seats at the table. Only the one to Patricia's right remained empty. Taking the first sip of her wine, she brought the meeting to order.

"Good evening, Rendell, Le Carré, Chandler and Sayers. Grisham will be joining us shortly. He is bringing in a potential new operative for the cabinet's assessment, a fortuitous event given the increasing level of activity we have all seen in the last few months. First though, I believe Le Carré has news from our overseas chapter."

Despite everyone present being seated in darkest shadow, five pairs of eyes turned automatically towards the seat nearest the door.

"Thank you, Christie," a cultured woman's voice filled the room. "Unfortunately, I am the bearer of concerning news. The two visitors we agreed to host from Dubai and Lichtenstein, though effective in their assignments, did not take sufficient care in the management of their briefs. This has meant the two commissions fell short of our usual scrupulous standards, an event which has attracted the attention of the London police."

There were several faint intakes of breath.

"In what way were the briefs mismanaged?" A man's voice from the seat directly opposite the woman spoke with barely restrained annoyance.

"The manner in which the assignments were undertaken were not carried out according to protocols and were, in fact, almost identical. It is because of this similarity in the two assignments in such a short period of time that the police are concerned it may be the work of a serial killer. As we all know, this is the very last thing we, as a collective authority in this field, can afford."

The room's silence felt distinctly strained.

"Have our visitors left London?" Patricia inquired thoughtfully.

"Yes, within an hour of the completion of the assignment, as was directed. Both operatives returned to their normal places of business within twelve hours. There was no difficulty for either of them in the Customs checks at either end of their journey." The woman near the door sounded relieved that at least part of the brief had been followed.

"Then the police will have nothing to find and nowhere to go," Patricia relaxed a little. "Though we will not host those two particular operatives again. Please ensure our international brethren are informed of this through the usual channels."

"And what of the police interest in our affairs at this time?" Rendell's voice held a soft Scottish burr even though the man himself was hidden in shadow, as were they all. "Now they have the bit between their teeth, the smallest link might be sufficient to bring them to us. Something must be done!"

"And something will be done," Patricia's cool tone interjected, causing the Scotsman to relapse into silence. "If necessary, I will ensure the police are misdirected. They will not be able to trace anything back to this cabinet, nor do we have the slightest reason for alarm."

The group had worked together for a number of years and if Christie said something would be done, it invariably was. The atmosphere lifted perceptibly.

A small blue light flickered high up above the entrance to the room. Someone was at the rear entrance desirous of entry. It would be Grisham and her potential new protégé. The remaining six members of the assassin's cabinet settled themselves and waited for their seventh associate to bring the stranger in. If there was the slightest question as to the proposed operative's reliability, they would not see the light of day again.

Patricia took another sip of wine and composed her thoughts.

###

It was late and Greg was hungry and frustrated with their lack of progress in either of the two bizarre murder cases on his desk. The partial registration plate hadn't been enough to narrow the search down to a specific name, though there'd been better luck backtracking the vehicle using speed and red-light cameras on the London night-time streets, a task made a little simpler because of a poor paint-job on the left rear wing which showed up as a lighter streak in the green glow of the night-vision cameras. Once they knew what car to they were looking for, it was relatively simple to find it. Though it took over an hour to follow the car's journey, it was eventually traced back along the A2, through the Elephant and Castle, all the way back towards a tangle of small streets in the Vauxhall-Lambeth area. No trace could be found of the car moving beyond

"There's all sorts of car places around there," Sally Donovan nodded sagely. "Might be, if the car was a rental, that's where it was picked up," raising her eyebrows, she met Lestrade's gaze. "Worth a try?"

Greg looked unimpressed. There were any number of rental outlets down that side of the river, nor did they have much of an idea who they might be after or even what kind of car they were looking for. All they had was a partial number plate. Still, at least it was _something_.

"Get Andy down there tomorrow first thing with a uniform. Tell him he's got until midday to see what he can dig up, but if they can't chase up a lead then we're back to square one." _And Sherlock bloody Holmes._

As he was folding himself into his heavy winter overcoat, a tousled-haired young officer ran through Greg's open door, forgetting even to knock in his excitement. At the beaming face, Lestrade waited for the news; had there been a breakthrough?

"We found the car again, sir!" the young man grinned widely, waving a single sheet of printed text. "Purely by accident, but we've caught the exact same car parked in the City three nights ago."

"Sure it's the same vehicle?" Greg was automatically suspicious of any needle-in-haystack claims these days. "Enough to stand up in court?"

"Absolutely positive, sir," the officer nodded emphatically. "Late model Renault, dark grey paint job. As the car was stationary at the time it was recorded, we were able to identify a lot more details, including a full registration plate!"

This was indeed good news and Greg found himself automatically peeling the coat from his back. "Where and when?" he demanded, reaching for the sheet of paper, his eyes refocusing even as he leaned over the printed details, taking in the information before his brain was on track. It took a second for the most obvious question to formulate. _What in hell was it doing parked around the back of the Old Temple Church in Fleet Street?_

"Find out who the registered owner is and get hold of them. I don't care if they're having dinner with the Queen or on their honeymoon in the Caribbean, I want to know who's been driving that bloody Renault around since Monday and where we can get hold of them!"

###

The doorbell to 221B rang shortly before ten, causing Sherlock to leap from his chair and hurl himself down the stairs before Mrs Hudson had time to take her pinny off. Peering out of one of the front room windows into the evening's gloom, John saw his flatmate in deep conversation with two disreputable-looking characters, no doubt members of his homeless network. The flash of several high denomination banknotes changing hands confirmed this hypothesis. This further meant Sherlock was now in possession of information he had not known earlier and, given that the only thing of any urgency in the air right now was the strange double murder, it followed the new data would be taking them a little closer to the perpetrators. Odds on, they'd both be out the door following some tenuous lead within the next two minutes. Sitting back in his chair, John picked up the newspaper and smiled behind its concealing pages, waiting for the call to arms. Sherlock smug-bugger Holmes wasn't the only one who could do this deduction lark.

But there was only silence. John lowered the paper to check the younger Holmes had in fact, returned to the flat. Sherlock was seated in his usual chair, his face a mask of brooding contemplation.

"Are we not going out then?" John wanted to be sure before he got himself too comfortable. "It looked like you were getting some fresh information."

"Indeed I was, John," Sherlock spoke slowly as he sat still deep in thought. His expression didn't alter. "But not the kind of information I was expecting. I feel it's even more critical now that I speak with Mycroft."

If Sherlock was so keen to meet with his brother, then the situation was more dire than it seemed. Frowning, John folded the paper and sat forward. "Is there anything we can do while you're waiting to hear back from him. Anything you want me to organise?"

Shaking his head imperceptibly, Sherlock stopped suddenly, blinking. "Of _course!"_ he muttered. "It's _organised_."

"What's organised?"

"The _killings_ , John, the murders! The killers are freelancers brought to London to do a job of work, which is why the individual murders are so carefully orchestrated and yet uniquely different in their own way," he paused again, thoughtful. "These last two contracts must have raised merry hell with whoever is running the show," he murmured, half to himself. "They would take great care you see, not to draw any attention to their activities. In a city the size of Greater London, where there are around three hundred deaths a day from natural causes, so why would the odd assassination or two matter? As long as it was skilfully done and carefully staged so that the death blended in with the mundane passing of dozens of others, then who would even blink twice at an extra body here or there? Think of it, John! Assassination for the masses! For the housewife who's fed up with a drunk of a husband, or the man who's been waiting just a bit too long for promotion ... Conventionally, assassinations have been of high-profile individuals for great political or financial gain, but not these, John! This is murder-for-hire at the most pedestrian level, where nobody wants to see beyond the obvious. Oh, it's clever John, it's very clever, but clearly something went askew with these last two deaths and whoever is organising this show will be taking steps to ensure nothing will be traced back to them."

"It's not one of Moriarty's old crowd, is it?" John was suddenly concerned. "I thought you'd dismantled his whole outfit before you came back?"

"Not Moriarty," Sherlock shook his head slowly as he thought. "This is too civilised and sane for his people."

"You call organised murder civilised?" John almost laughed. "Don't let Lestrade hear you saying that."

"These activities, for want of a better term, while far beyond the boundaries of both British and international law, are still extraordinarily low-key and have, up until today, gone unnoticed even by me. I suspect not even my dear brother knows anything about it, one of the reasons I need to speak with him. I have no idea how long this association has been operating in Britain, assuming there is a base of sorts in London, though even that might be incorrect. It's fascinating John, _fascinating_. To think this has been going on under our very noses, potentially for _years_ ..." Pulling his mobile phone out into the light, for the second time Sherlock called his brother. Once again, there was no response, his call going directly to a generic voicemail. Clamping his jaw shut, he realised there was only one other option. If the mountain would not come to Mohammad ...

###

Grisham's newcomer was exactly the type of operative Patricia liked best. Independent, highly intelligent but able to appear nondescript in both personal characteristics and dress. Nothing there that would attract unwanted attention. Also, another woman on the list of active specialists would mean they could commission more briefs without having to resort to outside expertise. The news from Le Carré had been a warning to all of them; it was all too easy to become lax when things had been running so smoothly for so very long. This was the eleventh year she had headed the Cabinet and a traitorous flicker of doubt crossed her thoughts again. Perhaps it really was time for her to hand the reins over to one of the other cabinet members. Poe would make a fine job of it. Perhaps it _was_ time for a change.

It was well after eleven when the last of the cabinet had left. It was part of her responsibility, as the most senior cabinet member, to chair the meetings, hold the casting vote in all cabinet business and, incidentally, look after the bookshop. Sometimes she wondered if they mightn't all be better off simply running a rare book business and giving up the other part of their lives, the dangerous, unspeakable part. But no. She was not cut out for an ordinary life. None of them were.

Ensuring everything was back in its place before shutting off the lights, Patricia checked the various failsafes guarding the cabinet chamber's rear door were in place and the entrance was completely secured. Returning the way she had come, back out through the rear store room and into the dim bookshop, she suddenly froze, her scalp prickling. The bookshop's night lights should still be on, but only the one above the desk glowed gently golden. Something was very wrong and her hand moved of its own accord towards the clasp of the bag she carried. Her gun was only inches away.

"I suggest you remain perfectly still." The man's voice was entirely civil, almost soothing, but the underlying tone was not. The statement had been an imperative and everyone within earshot knew it. "There's no need for this to become unpleasant."

"What are you doing in my shop at this time of night? Leave before I call the police!" Covering her shock with indignant fury, Patricia stood at her tallest, still gripping her small bag but making no attempt to open it.

"By all means call them if you wish, though of the two of us, I believe your explanation would be the most interesting." The sound of quiet footsteps approached from the shadows near the front of the shop as a tall man paused at the edge of the light. His face was still in shadow but she recognised the voice. It was the man who'd been in earlier, the one who'd bought a book on ancient poisons, the one who seemed to see too much. But clearly, this was no customer service issue.

"Come for another book?" she asked coldly.

Stepping forward into the light's glow, the tall man's vague smile could just be seen. Tempted to shoot him where he stood by squeezing the gun's trigger through the soft leather bag, Patricia thought twice as she noticed two large men, dressed entirely in dark clothes, standing less than two feet behind the man's back. The flat expression on their faces suggested they were not here for their social skills.

"Surprisingly, no," the man's eyes met hers. "Tantalising though your collection is, I'm here to talk with you about your other job ... Ms _Devereaux_."

Patricia hadn't called herself by that name anywhere in the world for more than ten years and the fact this man knew it made him all the more dangerous. It was important she found out what else he knew, if only to protect the others.

"My name is Jager, as I told you earlier," Patricia kept her voice level and icy. "I demand to know what you're doing here."

"Very good," the tall man nodded approvingly, his smile curving the corners of his mouth. Abruptly, he removed his right glove. "Mycroft Holmes," he said, offering her his hand. "I represent the British Government and I'd like to have a chat about the organisation of which you are the head," he added, nodding at the half-closed door behind the desk. "Shall we?"

 _How did this stranger know these things?_ Unwilling to give an inch, Patricia kept her hands perfectly still and upped the chill in her voice. "I have absolutely no idea what you're talking about, but the police will no doubt be happy to speak with you ..." Her hand was already on the sales desk phone before the nearest dark-suited man took it away from her with an unexpected politeness.

"I really don't think you should be calling anyone at this time of the night, Ms Devereaux," Mycroft shook his head sadly as he leaned on the handle of his furled umbrella. "Especially as we both know it would not be the police you were intending to call. One of your colleagues, perhaps? I'd prefer not to have our relationship degenerate into an unpleasant quarrel quite so soon. After you. Please."

The second man had already gone back through into the storeroom and was still looking for the other exit.

"I'm not sure what you think I had back here other than my books, Mr ... _Holmes_ ," Patricia looked rigid with anger but in reality, she was already working out her options. There was another gun in here for safety reasons. If she could distract the two heavies, there might be a chance for her to ...

"Use the infrared." Another imperative. With a silent nod, one of the men in black produced a small electronic pad with what looked like an attached stylus. Pointing the stylus first at one side wall before moving toward the back shelves, a shrill beeping made it obvious to everyone in the room it had found something interesting. Arching his eyebrows as he glanced at the small screen, the man turned to show his boss the results.

"Clearly there's a mechanism to open this second door from inside this room," Mycroft glanced around before turning a penetrating gaze upon Patricia. "My colleagues are entirely capable of ripping the place apart in order to find it, however it would be much more sensible if we didn't have to resort to brute force, don't you agree?"

Realising the man was as good as his word, Patricia clamped her jaw shut and reached for the disguised door-release just as she had before. One of the accompanying 'colleagues' brought out a serious-looking handgun before proceeding into the darkness of the passage beyond.

"You'd better stop him," she turned to stare at the man who called himself Holmes. "There are ... preventative measures in the passageway."

Nodding to the other silent assistant to go after his associate, Holmes returned his gaze to her face, waiting. "Interesting magnetic locks you have on this place," he said, filling the silence between them. "I noticed the unexpected hi-tech security you had here when I first entered earlier today. It was what first intrigued me about this place. Are you planning to maintain a disingenuous ignorance, or are you ready to accept I already know almost everything about you and your ... _Cabinet?"_

Apparently he did know, though how he knew was yet to be determined. If she discovered anyone on the cabinet had betrayed the organisation, she would take very great pleasure in returning to her previous profession, if only for a single night. "Come through, then," she spoke in a low tone. "I had better go first if you wish to avoid any trouble," she met his eyes with a defiant look. Either he would trust her and they would be safe, or he would not, in which case they would all probably die. After a moment's thought, the tall man nodded and Patricia stepped forward, passing through the electromagnetic frame which encompassed the entire passageway. Once she was through, she could rush to turn the safety measures back on, but what would be the point? She had to know what Holmes knew. Who _was_ he to have such information?

Passing through the inconspicuous steel frame, Patricia walked through into the cabinet meeting room, ignoring the footsteps following her into the larger space. If they wanted her dead, there was precious little she could do about it. Reaching her fingers beneath the edge of the table by her customary seat, she located the light buttons and pressed them hard until the large room was fully illuminated; no accommodating shadows this time. Leaving her bag on the table, she turned her back on the quiet sounds behind her of things being searched, and headed straight for the bottle atop the sideboard at the back of the room. Passing over the wine, this time she poured herself a generous measure of aged scotch. With a brief sigh, she turned back to face the stranger,

Seated one seat away from the apex of the horseshoe, the man's crossed legs and relaxed demeanour suggested he was no stranger to this kind of conversation. His two men stood silently by the entrance to the room, as plain a show of power as could be made. As she took her usual seat at the table she met the tall man's dark blue eyes. "The scotch is excellent," she said. "Help yourself."

"Later, perhaps," Holmes gave another of his fleeting, ambiguous smiles. "This is hardly a social occasion."

"How do you know about this place?" Patricia leaned forward suddenly, unwilling to continue her passive role any longer. "Why did you come here this morning? Who _are_ you?"

Removing a small notebook from inside his coat, the man Holmes lifted his eyebrows slightly as he began to read. "Alia Arien Devereaux, 1.64 meters, 60 kilos, and somewhere between mid-thirties and early forties depending on which documents you believe," he glanced at her, blinking slowly as his eyebrows arched a little more. "Predominantly of German and Scandinavian descent, you were born a United States citizen, spending much of your youth somewhere in California where you may have attended up to three different universities, possibly majoring in mathematics, the philosophies of Kant and Hume, psychology, astronomy, social justice and physical education," he paused, looking up again. "Or possibly not." His eyes examined her unchanging expression. "Following at least one, and potentially several graduations, you embarked upon a career which can only be described as eclectic," pausing again, he turned to a fresh page.

"You were accepted into the CIA ... or was it the FBI?" Holmes smiled charmingly. "It is _so_ hard to find the right security service these days, don't you agree?" His eyes returned to the small book in his fingers. "Following which you spent several years in deep-cover operative roles both within the Continental United States and in quite a number of countries whose foreign policies were decidedly less than friendly to American interests." Nodding fractionally, the man pursed his mouth and sighed. "Was it personal disinterest or something else that finally brought you back into the world at large, I wonder?" The question was murmured and perhaps not even a question. Holmes shut the notebook with a quiet _snap_. "And then, twelve years ago, you disappeared," he met her eyes a third time. "Vanished ... _pouf_ ," he lifted long fingers in the air. "And now you are here, in London, as Patricia Jager; running a bookshop in Fleet Street and living in an apartment far too expensive for anyone on retail wages," he added, watching her for the first time with something more than abstract curiosity. "It's my job to know why. So please tell me what you've been up to, Ms Devereaux and why you are here, or I shall simply have to assume the worst."

"And do _what?"_ In many ways it was an enormous relief to cast off the persona she had cultivated so assiduously for so long. "Have me deported? Throw me in jail? Have me _disappeared?"_ Emptying her glass, Alia leaned forward, resting her chin with great deliberation on her hand. "If you think you know so much, and please understand I'm not agreeing with anything you've just said, then you must surely realise I'm unlikely to tell you anything under duress."

"Everyone has their weaknesses," Mycroft looked momentarily distant. "Their pressure points. But as it happens, I have no desire to force you to do anything."

"Then what _do_ you want?" Alia had not allowed her real personality such free rein in over a decade and exhilaration made the blood pound in her ears.

Slowly linking his fingers together, Holmes was clearly considering his next words. "I want to know the nature and extent of this ... Assassin's _Cabinet_ ," his eyes glinted with what might have been dark appreciation. "I want to know how it operates, the identities of key personnel, your communication channels and international contacts," he paused, smiling his charming smile again. "That will do to be going on with, I think."

Just as slowly, Alia leaned forward so her chin rested atop her own linked fingers as she stared back at the man who knew all these impossible things. "No, Mr Holmes," her smile was equally pleasant. "I don't believe I will."

The expression on his face almost made her laugh. "Oh don't pout," she smiled genuinely for the first time. "Do what you want with me but please don't assume I'll simply roll over and play dead to suit you."

"You must know I'll discover all this information in time," Holmes frowned thoughtfully. "You do your case no good by such non-cooperation."

"And I truly don't care." Alia sat back and folded her arms. "If you are as powerful as you appear to be, then I can't possibly hope to protect myself, but at least I can do my damndest to protect everything else."

Narrowing his eyes, Holmes scowled, folding his own arms. "Why? Why would you risk endangering your own freedom and welfare for the benefit of others?"

"Because I take my responsibilities very seriously and because I don't like being bullied."

Several moments silence stretched between them before the tall man exhaled heavily, obviously making up his mind about something. Alia hoped he wasn't about to have her beaten up, but it was to be expected. People this powerful rarely took refusal well. As she watched, Holmes stood, his dark eagle stare pinning her where she sat. He purposefully held out his right hand again.

"Mycroft Holmes," he said. "I am connected to British security interests and I'd like to know what your organisation does and if it is likely to pose a wider threat to the British people and the Commonwealth."

 _Well. That was at least a bit more approachable_. Likewise standing, Alia took his extended hand in her own. "Alia Devereaux," she responded, her tone matching his. "Head of a freelance social justice organisation offering conclusive solutions to intolerable problems."

"Your organisation calls itself the 'Assassin's Cabinet'?" Mycroft tilted his head a fraction as he released her hand. "This suggests the claim of social justice to be something of a misnomer."

"We make it very clear our solutions are permanent," Alia spoke honestly. "And not taken lightly. And our contracts are not based simply on money. There has to be a genuinely intolerable situation."

"Murder with a conscience?" Mycroft tweaked his eyebrows, giving her a sideways look. "Ethical assassination? Forgive me if I am unconvinced."

"It's not my job to convince you," Alia felt suddenly tired. It had been a long day and seemed like turning into a long night. "It's a business run by experts and we've been operating for a very long time. Have you even suspected our existence before today?"

Looking as though he'd bitten a lemon, Mycroft pursed his mouth tighter than before. "Code fragments were intercepted," he acknowledged. "What was assumed to be straightforward, old fashioned book codes. But they weren't, were they?" A note of admiration crept into his voice. "That was clever. Your idea?"

"In part," Alia shrugged. "The organisation had already been in place for a long time when I found it. I simply brought it from the nineteenth into the twenty-first century," she smiled almost fondly. "You Brits have a real thing for social justice, you know? I could hardly believe I'd discovered something that combined my interests, skillset and personal convictions. When I arrived, the group couldn't meet demand because of basic costs, so the bookshop became not just a cover but a genuine money-maker. Now, if there's a potential client who desperately needs our help and can't afford it ... _pouf_ ," Alia mimicked his earlier gesture, lifting her fingers in the air. "True social justice, like I said," she paused, assessing his expression. "What happens now? Going to throw me in jail and close the bookshop down? You know it won't make any difference in the long run; the group will simply wait a while and then set up somewhere else."

Narrowing his eyes again, Mycroft smiled almost wolfishly. "I have no intention of closing you down," he said finally. "The opposite, in fact. I have always had a great respect those in the book industry. I wonder if you might ever consider taking on a more ... _civic_ role?"

###

"You're not angry." John was confused. "It's late and we came all the way down to your brother's Whitehall office and never got beyond his assistant's desk. Normally," John considered the situation thoughtfully. "That would have you chomping at the bit. Why aren't you? And where are we going now?"

" _Ah_ John. As always, you see but you do not observe." Though he was studying the screen of his phone, Sherlock stuck his arm out to hail the next passing cab. They were in the Trafalgar Square area so, even though it was nearly midnight, the cabbies were still doing a roaring trade, especially this close to Christmas.

"Alright. What have I not observed on this particular occasion?" John was wondering just how long it would take before any of London's notoriously egalitarian cab drivers responded to an imperious arm thrust into the air, when one of the big black cars slowed to a halt inches away from the kerb.

"My brother is working on something important, otherwise he would have been in touch after my first call, suggesting he's either been in meetings all day or he's been out of his office dealing with something of a sufficient importance to merit his personal attention. Get in," he added, holding the cab door open.

"There was a paper carrier bag from a bookshop on Anthea's desk," Sherlock climbed in, closing the door behind him. "It was empty but showed signs of having only very recently been used for its intended purpose, that is, to carry books. The address of the shop is in Fleet Street."

"So we're going to Fleet Street then? Because of an empty paper bag?"

"Yes, but not because of a bag. Because of this," Sherlock held the screen of his phone close enough for John to see the details. There was a map of London, specifically, the centre of London. There was also a small moving blue dot, near the Temple Church.

"What's the blue dot?"

"Not what John, _who_. It's Lestrade. I tried one of those transparent stick-on trackers I received from Amazon last week. I've been dying for a chance to try them out and now we have this." The tall man grinned happily. "This might change the way we locate people in the future, even my brother if we're careful."

"You put a tracker on Greg Lestrade?" John sounded wary. "When? Does he know?"

"At the greenhouse in Greenwich, on his shoulder and of _course_ he doesn't know, that's the entire point of using a tracker in the first place."

"You put an illegal tracker on a police officer and you don't think there's anything wrong with that?"

"Be serious John. It's Lestrade. He'll never find it and I'll take it back as soon as we meet him again," Sherlock glanced up at the nearest street sign. "Which should be in about ten minutes."

"In Fleet Street?"

"Yup. That's where he is right now."

"But it's nearly midnight. What's Greg doing in Fleet Street at midnight?" John was sounding more confused by the minute.

"That John, is an _excellent_ question."

###

"You're kidding."

"I assure you, British security is hardly a frivolous matter."

"You want me to persuade the group to subcontract to the British government?"

"I am always interested in acquiring expert assistance in times of tight fiscal policy."

"You're sure you know what we do?"

"I'm confident I know precisely what you do."

Alia stood to replenish her glass, pouring a drink for Mycroft which she set in front of him. Could it be done? It might mean the difference between helping some unfortunate or accepting further suffering for them. What would the group think? How dangerous could such an arrangement be? And yet this man had access to so _much_ unreachable information ... Retaking the seat at the apex of the horseshoe table, she raised her glass as she did. "Here's mud in your eye," she sipped reflectively for a moment as if tasting the outrageousness of his proposition. " _Partner_."

Even as Mycroft was about to sample what promised to be an excellent Islay scotch, a commotion erupted some distance down the unseen passageway. Shouts and various other sounds suggestive of an attempted forced entry reached their ears in the meeting chamber. Hasty footsteps followed shortly after.

"And?" Mycroft made no move other than a slight rise of his eyebrows as one of his men in black appeared.

"It's the police, sir," the man sounded uncertain. "With your brother and a Dr Watson."

Closing his eyes momentarily, Mycroft wondered what gods he had offended this time. "Are they likely to go away with appropriate encouragement?" There was a wistful note in his voice.

"Probably not, sir," the big man was briefly meditative. "Unless you're comfortable with things getting physical?"

"And bring more police? I hardly think so. How many officers?"

"An Inspector Lestrade, sir. He seems kosher."

"Only the three then. Is that all?"

"Yes sir. Just the three of them."

Turning swiftly to Alia, Mycroft linked his fingers on the tabletop. "It seems your sanctum sanctorum is about to be further invaded unless I permit my people to resort to violence which, knowing both my brother and the good Inspector, would simply bring down more unwanted attention upon our heads. However, as it would be wise for you not to be seen in my presence, I'll keep them at bay until you have time to leave the premises and maintain your anonymity. There's little need for us to meet again; everything we need to discuss can be done either through intermediaries or via a secure line of communication, if that is acceptable to you."

It was _very_ wise not to be seen together by anyone, however Alia had no intention of leaving the cabinet meeting room to the tender mercies of complete strangers.

"Bring them in, if you must," she swirled the remains of her drink. "Give them some plausible cover story for our meeting and then get rid of them. If this location is compromised, our organisation will be forced to relocate and any arrangement between us is off."

Frowning, Mycroft sighed, thinking rapidly, pulling out his mobile phone. "Let them through."

"Wait!" Slipping her fingers beneath the edge of the table, Alia manipulated the room's lighting, sending all but one of the seven seats into deepest shadow. It was impossible to tell which seats were occupied or vacant, other than the one obviously being used by Mycroft Holmes. All she had to do was remain silent and nobody would know she was even present.

"Mycroft!" The tall figure of his brother swept into the room, greatcoat swirling wide. John Watson and Greg Lestrade were only a step behind. "Why are you here? I've been trying to reach you all day," the younger Holmes paused sharply, gazing around the darkened room. "The acoustics in this place are very odd," he added, staring into the complete blackness surrounding the apex of the table. Alia held her breath.

"Sherlock, I have no desire to continually evict you from my meetings. As you can see, I am here alone with my phone, in a most private conversation. The only reason I permitted any of you inside was to ensure the security of this location remained intact. All three of you have now seen what little there is to see and I demand that you immediately leave the way you came."

"Unless you've suddenly taken to wearing Opium, brother mine, there's a woman sitting back there in the shadows." Sherlock returned his piercing stare to an unnervingly close approximation of Alia's position.

"Enough, Sherlock!" Mycroft turned his imperious expression towards Lestrade. "Are you here to support my brother or to circumvent his foolish activities?"

"We traced a car used in a recent murder to the parking lot out the back of this building," Greg looked around to see what he could of the grand room they was in. "Sherlock said we should look for anything out of the ordinary and it was him who found the doorway back there. I'd never had guessed it was even a door. Looked straight up like a stretch of stone wall, especially in the dark, but His Nibs said otherwise and here we are," he said, looking around. "Where are we?"

"There is an organisation in London, dedicated to the art of minor murders," Sherlock turned his stare upon his brother, as imperious as Mycroft had been. "I have no idea how long they have been operating in the Capital, though I suspect it has been for quite some time. What do you know of them?"

"John, is my brother quite well?" Mycroft glared at his sibling.

"Right as rain, Mycroft," John folded his arms. "And if Sherlock is saying there's an organisation in London who specialise in bumping off unknowns, then I'd tend to believe him." John sniffed. "You know, even I can smell perfume in here. It's not you, is it Greg?"

Scowling, Lestrade stepped a little further into the room. If there was anyone else in the shadows, he wanted to know. "Oi, _Princess_ ," he addressed the blackness in front of him. "All it takes is for me to find the light switch and the game is up. Come out now and we can discuss this like adults." He looked back at the wall behind him. "Where's the light switch?"

Thankful for her long and varied training with a number of the world's most elite intelligence units, Alia remained utterly motionless and scarcely breathed. She didn't even blink.

"This is ridiculous," Sherlock moved as if to charge into the darkness, when everyone in the room heard the soft _click_ of a nine-millimetre pistol slide being pulled back as a round was chambered.

"I believe that is your invitation to leave, Gentlemen," Mycroft stood, meeting his brother's irritated glare. "You must take my assurances that there is nothing here for you tonight. Inspector," he turned to Lestrade. "I think you will find that the two cases you are pursuing are now no longer a police matter, meaning you no longer have a reason to be here." Glancing across at John Watson who stood partially in the shadows himself. "John, please take my brother home."

"I'm not a child, Mycroft," Sherlock's gaze had not wavered one iota from the spot in the darkness where Alia now held her Glock ready. "I _know_ you know who's behind these killings."

"Goodnight, Sherlock," Mycroft's expression was impassive. He nodded at Lestrade. "Inspector."

A span of tense, silent seconds ticked by.

"Come on, Lads," Greg knew when he was in way above his pay grade. "Looks like there's nothing for us here after all."

With a savage growl and an epic swirl of his long coat, Sherlock stormed back down the passageway. John threw Mycroft a hard look. "You know this isn't the end of it, don't you?"

"Goodnight John." Mycroft tipped his head back, looking down his nose at the shorter blond man.

The sound of footsteps faded away.

"Is honour satisfied?" Mycroft turned to look directly into Alia's eyes, though how he knew where they were in such impenetrable shadow, she'd no idea. "Do we still have an accord?"

The darkness lightened just enough for him to make out the shape of a human silhouette at the head of the table.

"We do, but my organisation has nothing to prove, whereas you do," she said.

"And how long shall it be until we trust one another?" Mycroft arched a single eyebrow.

"Let's give it a decade or so and see how we go." Alia released the Glock's slide almost silently.

"Point taken," Mycroft smiled. "We'll see ourselves out. Goodnight, Ms Devereaux."

"The name is _Christie_ ," Alia smiled. "Or Patricia Jager. Alia Devereaux doesn't exist right now."

"Interesting pseudonym, Patricia Jager," Mycroft paused at the entrance to the corridor leading out to the rear of the building. "Noble hunter'. It suits you."

"Goodnight, My."

"The name is Mycroft."

"Sure it is. Night, My."

###

"So how do you work out your brother knows about these murders then?" John sank down into his chair, a mug of steaming tea in his hand. He was far too wound up to sleep despite the late hour.

"Don't you remember what Mycroft said to Lestrade?" Sherlock was still fuming, but less so than before. Whatever his brother might do, the mystery of the nearly identical murders was more or less solved. "He knew precisely the number of cases the police were working on, and yet nobody at the Met would have told him. We certainly didn't say anything, _so how did he know there had been two murders?"_ Taking a big sip from his own mug, Sherlock Holmes frowned. "This isn't over, John. There's murderous intrigue going on in London and I mean to find out exactly what it is."

###

She knew this wasn't over, despite Mycroft Holmes' assurances, there was bound to be some kind of fallout from this night's work. But maybe that was okay. She had never been cut out for an ordinary life.

 

**The End**


End file.
